


In Thy Image

by laconicisms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Breathplay, Community: salt_burn_porn, Humiliation, Incest, M/M, Minor Season 7 Spoilers, Necrophilia, Objectification, Other, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2011-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laconicisms/pseuds/laconicisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gazes into the abyss. The abyss gazes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Thy Image

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to sistabro for betaing. All remaining mistakes are mine. This was written for [Salt Burn Porn](http://salt_burn_porn.livejournal.com) for sistabro's prompt "I'm not the dark center of the universe like you thought."

"Dean," he says, tsking, leaning on Dean with the mass of John's body, and Dean can't. Breathe, pressed between the wall and the flesh of his father. Words rise to his lips, get stuck before he can utter them. The Yellow Eyed Bastard leans in and steals them, tongue licking along Dean's teeth, snaking inside Dean's mouth. Dean wants to bite him. But this is his father's tongue, and this is his father's cock rubbing against Dean's groin, and all Dean can breathe and smell and taste in this moment is Dad. (And all he can hope is that Sam will never know.)

\--

"Dean," Alastair murmurs, like a father soothing his child. Dean's mind is sluggish, distracted by the agony of being strung up by the iron nails in his hands and ankles, the pressure on his lungs. Darkness threatens (promising, but never coming). He doesn't react, doesn't even groan, and Alastair can't bear such insolence.

The spear plunges into his side. Alastair twists it around half a turn, waits while Dean whimpers and bucks and finally focuses on him. "Watch me," his eyes - white, white as milky phlegm - say. His teeth flash (yellow and black and rotting in his mouth; two at the back are gone altogether. Dean knows. Dean knows every inch of Alastair's form.)

"Behold the lamb," Alastair intones. "Cleansing the soul of sin with the giving of blood." (No, _saving Sam_ , Dean thinks, keeping Sam's blood - running down Dean's hands and his arms as Dean holds him close - in Sam's body.) He twists the spear again, slower, drawing out the pain until Dean is wheezing with the agony of it, sweating tears and blood. Alastair moves forward, letting go off the spear; it tears at Dean's wound but doesn't rip free, dragging at his side like the weight of the world.

He comes closer, his breath sickly sweet and cloying as he runs his tongue (three pustules at the front, two lacerations at the back) across Dean's face, cleaning off the sweat like a dog. (Dean has learned how to do _that_ , too.)

"Pity you just get soiled again right away."

Alastair is always as tall as he wants to be, as hideous as he desires and as deformed. From the corner of his eye Dean watches his arm lengthen, watches his twisted, bony hand grab Dean's ankle and pull it loose from the cross. The nail remains stuck in the wooden frame.

Dean retches (dryly, nothing to eat in hell), and Alastair straightens his leg, moves his foot up, up, stretching until Dean's leg rests against the side of Dean's head (like a ballet dancer's pose). He stops and stares at Dean, and Dean hears his voice echo inside his head. _Keep it there. Stay like this for me, because I twisted you into this shape and you are mine. To do with as I please._

But Dean can't; he strains, gasps for air (pant, pant, pant - quick, like a dog) and cannot hold that position. (Not possible, physically speaking, but this is hell and he's not physical, but still he _can't_. Not for Alastair, not for anyone.)

 _You will obey, Dean. You will do as I tell you, or I will use force. Either way, you will obey._

And the second option always hurts more. (Dean inevitably chooses the second because he can do nothing else. Alastair always plays the part of disappointed master.)

His master shakes his head, sighs, takes Dean's foot and looks upward. A rope - a fishing line - falls from the darkness of the ceiling (no darkness for Dean), on its end a hook.

Dean watches Alastair take it, drive it through his foot. _Eyes on me, Dean, or I will pluck them out and set them where I wish._ Does for one glorious moment not feel the pain of it, only to be hit with twice as much a second later.

He can't breathe.

The line is pulled upward. Dean's foot stays where Alastair wants it to be. "You make an excellent mannequin, Dean," he says, drawing Dean's gaze downward with a sweep of his hand, until Dean's eyes rest on Alastair's cock, on the monstrous size of it (decaying, too, but still hard). It fills his mind, calls up memories (Dean prostrate on the ground; Dean bent over, licking at Meg; Dean dismembered (you will have one member from me); Dean in every position and every way possible.)

It is his center and it's filling him again.

\--

"Sam." In his mind Dean sees Sam as he was (as he'll continue to be, goddammit). Strong, freakishly tall, and nerdy. Obsessed with clean underwear ("Seriously, three days in a row, Dean?") and research and godawful music. All that is Sam. Dean and Sam are cold winter nights spent huddled together on the backseat of the Impala (no money for a motel room), arguing over who gets to have more of the blanket ("I'm taller." - "I'm older.") or sharing a pizza (Dean eats the greater half; Sam gets to tidy up). This, too, is them: lying in their hotel room, on their beds, watching porn and pretending the other is asleep. (He can hear Sam groan, soft gasps, and at times Dean matches up their breathing and _pretends_. He believes Sam does, too.)

Sam is home, Dean thinks, feels it with every fibre of his being as he grabs Sam's hand, presses his thumb against the wound he's stitched up. (This is not torture. Dean is not Alastair.)

You're home, Dean screams inside. You're the only thing - the _only_ thing - that is real to me. (Why am I not the only thing that is real to you?)

Sam looks away, to Dean's left, presses his own thumb against the wound (for Dean). And Dean should not get aroused; his cock should not harden as he watches Sam's face twist in pain, hears his harsh breathing (Does it cost you to breathe? Is it difficult? Dean rather thinks it is.), and tastes Sam's deodorant and the acrid smell of fear on the air.

You are my world, Sam, he thinks when Sam's eyes clear and the look on his face is that of a man starving for something. Comfort perhaps, of whatever kind, because Sam - who is looking at and finally seeing Dean again - is growing hard, too, and Dean knows that if not tonight, then soon, they will stop pretending.

 _You are my center, Sam._

 _I shouldn't be yours._   



End file.
